V 02 - Domino Men, The (38 page)

I strode over to the wretched National Health Service cot in which the old bastard had been so long entombed and saw that the nurse was right.  There was a message scrawled for me, written on a page ripped from a notepad.

Dear Henry,
Go home.

It was signed in his usual scrawl.  Below that, a postscript.

I am serious. 
Go home
.

Nothing else.  Just that.  And to think I was hoping for answers.

The nurse was speaking again.  “You mustn’t worry about him.  He’s with friends.  I saw them from this window.”

“Friends?  What friends?”

“Two men in fancy dress.  “They were dressed as—”

I cut her short.  “I know what they were dressed as.”

The woman laughed.  There was an undercurrent of naughtiness to it, as though she’d just been unexpectedly tickled somewhere intimate.  “You know what’s coming, don’t you?”

“What?”

Another discomfitingly sensual laugh.  “The city is ripe and Leviathan is coming to take it as his own.”

“What did you say?”

The door was flung open and someone clattered in behind us.  The nurse swiveled away and returned her attention to the gathering dark.

The new arrival shouted my name and I barely had time to hear the strutting clack of her heels and catch the familiar odor of her perfume before she was upon me and I was enfolded in her fleshy arms.

“Oh, Henry…”

“Hello, Mum,” I said.

She was covered in snow.  A thick swathe of the stuff was clinging to her clothes, and although traces of it were still discernible on her hair and eyebrows, the rest must long ago have sunk into her skin.

“He’s a shit, Henry.  I was the latest in a very long line.  I was a notch on his bedpost.”  She broke off, having finally realized what had happened.  “Where is he?  Where’s the old bastard?”

“He’s gone.  It would seem he’s defied medical science and made a dash for it.”

Mom sounded dazed and bewildered.  “That can’t be right, can it?  That’s not possible.”

By the window, the nurse turned her head toward us, slowly, as though heavily drugged.  “Leviathan is coming.”  A look of zealotry burnished her face.  “Such a glorious day.”

For an instant, Mum just stared at her, then she gasped as though she were short of breath, lumbered forward and crashed into a chair, sending it skidding across the floor.

“Mum?  Are you OK?”

All at once, she seemed terrifyingly old.  “I’m OK,” She murmured.  “Don’t know what came over me.  Just a little turn.”

“I think we should leave.”

“So many of them, Henry.  All those women.  And not just women, either.  It’s the only thing he’d talk about.  I couldn’t stand it.  I—”

“Let’s go, Mum.  I don’t think it’s safe here anymore.”

“Not safe?”  My mother looked afraid.  “Why ever isn’t it safe??  Is Gordy here?  Is that it?”

“Come back to the flat.  I don’t think you should be on your own.”

“Then, without warning, my mother was smiling again, a dopey, blissed-out kind of grin.  “Have you seen the weather, Henry?  Don’t you think it’s beautiful?”

I grunted in reply, took her by the arm and steered her firmly toward the door.

“Leviathan is coming,” Mum said.  “Leviathan is coming to earth.”

“At the sound of these words I felt rancid and sick but I did my best not to show it.  “Let’s get out of here,” I said briskly.  “Let’s take you home.”

As we walked from the room, I heard the nurse begin to laugh.  An instant later, the old man in the bed joined in.  Mum and I left the Machen Ward backed by the stereo laughter of people whose sanity was steaming into the distance and wasn’t even bothering to look back.

We scurried through the hospital as fast as we could.  The beds had emptied out and the patients — even the worst of them, even the most long-term and permanently horizontal — were on their feet, milling in flocks, trailing tubes and splints and bandages.  I learnt later that a doctor had returned from a lengthy outdoor cigarette break to open every single window in every single ward, encouraging the black snow to enter in and billow hungrily over all those consigned to the care of St. Chad’s.

The staff were endeavoring to keep them in line, doing their best to put everything back in its proper place, but the ill, the old and the dying were having none of it and persisted in wriggling free.  The scariest thing was that it was becoming hard to tell the professionals from their charges, the keepers from the beasts.

As we pushed our way past, it felt like I was one of the first to have any idea what was happening, the first to understand the gravity of the situation, like the man who runs to the top deck of the Titanic the moment the lower levels begin to flood only to find the band bickering amongst themselves about what to play next.

When we reached the exit, Mum didn’t want to come.  She seemed to want to stay with the patients, and I had to use some considerable force to rip her out of the door, into the dark and the snow.  Behind us, the situation grew worse.  I didn’t turn back but I heard scuffling and brawling and wild laughter — the forest-fire spread of insanity.

The roads were packed, almost completely gridlocked as the population struggled to escape the city.  There were horns, raised voices and shaken fists, quarrels and arguments lip-read from behind glass — anger feigned to hide the fizzing surge of panic.  For a while, we walked, me half-dragging my mother, as she seemed to luxuriate in the snowfall and shuffled only very reluctantly onward until, miraculously, I saw a taxi drive by, its light still switched on.  Warily, the driver stopped for us, but it was only when I brandished a wad of notes that he seemed to even entertain the idea of letting us inside.  I gave him everything I had and told him to take us to the flat in Tooting Bec.  Mum was still bleating and muttering darkly but I strapped her in and told her, politely and with a lot of love, to shut up and behave herself.

We had just escaped from Camberwell Green when my mobile phone shuddered in my pocket, as though in sympathy with the distress which surrounded us.

The line whirred and crackled, like the soundtrack to an old newsreel, and it took me a minute to recognize the voice.

“Henry?  It’s me.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Jasper.  Though I think you ought to know now.  My name…  my real name…  It’s Richard Price.”

I thought for a moment.  “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“No.  I just thought…  I thought you ought to know my real name.”

“Thanks.”  I really couldn’t think of what else to say.  “How are you?”

“Fading fast.”

I asked him, not without a certain measure of impatience, what on earth he was talking about.

“I’m in a hotel room,” he said.  “Somewhere expensive.  Somewhere clean.  So very important, I think, to die somewhere clean.”

“What are you doing there?  Can’t you lot help?  This stuff — this snow — it’s doing something to people.”

Jasper chuckled indulgently, like a mother to her little boy who won’t stop jabbering about his first day at school.  “I’ve swallowed some pills, Henry.  Swallowed a lot of pills.”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“Because I touched her.”

“Touched who?”

“Only once.  I want to make that absolutely clear.  I only touched her once.  But I had to.  You understand?  What man wouldn’t?”

“Who?  Who did you touch?”

“The goddess, Henry.  The new Estella.  She was so perfect.  She was smooth between the legs.”  He wheezed in exhilaration.  “Do you forgive me?  Henry?  I absolutely need you to forgive me.”

“I don’t suppose it matters now,” I said, watching fistfuls of black flakes throw themselves in kamikaze assault against the windows.

“It’s all over.  The great serpent is coming.”  Mr. Jasper (“Richard Price”) coughed, a thin rasp which turned, horribly, into something gushing and wet.  “You’ve seen the snow?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“I’m…  I’m not sure.”

“It’s ampersand, Henry.  Ampersand pouring from the sky.”

Another rattling breath, the line went dead and the snow fell more densely and more heavily than before, ceaselessly, without mercy, pouring onto the city like tears.

Three days was all it took for London to run into the arms of chaos.  The city embraced it willingly, all too eager to swap her staid old suitors of simmering calm and disgruntled order for this fresh admirer, this master swordsman of panic, anarchy and fear.

We arrived back at the flat late that afternoon.  Several times during the journey the driver had come close to turfing us out his cab.  He was going to make a break for it, he said, get the hell out of the city before catastrophe struck.  It was only by stopping at another ATM and clearing out all that was left in my account that I was able to persuade him to take us home at all.

On the long drive Mum had got much worse, alternately enraged over old mistakes and infidelities, and weeping over what was hiding in the snow.  By the time I got her to the flat, she’d grown almost delirious and Abbey, who, I noted with a warm glow of affection, was working hard to batten down her own panic and disquiet, had to help me put her into my bed, swinging Mum’s legs indecorously onto the mattress, stripping off most of her clothes, settling her down and doing our best to make her comfortable.

I’m sure it was wrong of me to think about such things at a time like that, but I realized, with a tingly thrill, that this unexpected houseguest would mean I’d have no choice but to share Abbey’s bed that night.

I brought Mum a glass of water, persuaded her to drink and, as she seemed finally to swim back to lucidity, introduced her to Abbey.

“You two an item?” she asked, as I wiped a strand of spittle from her lips.  “I always thought you were gay.”  She gurgled, spumes of spittle dripping from the corners of her mouth.  “Never saw you with a woman.  Assumed you were a woofter.”

“What’s happening?” Abbey asked when I came back into the sitting room and, frightened, we held one another just a little too tightly on the sofa.  “Henry, what’s happening?”

“The worst thing you can imagine,” I said.  “That’s what’s happening.  The absolute worst thing you can imagine.”

“No,” she snapped.  “I’m fed up with all these secrets.  I want to know exactly what’s going on.  I want you to tell me the truth.”

So I took her in my arms and, as gently as I could, I told her everything — from what had happened on the day that Granddad collapsed, to my history with the Prefects, to all that I knew about the snow.  When I’d finished, she just nodded, thanked me for my honesty and reached for the TV remote.

On the tiny screen of Abbey’s portable television (rescued from the attic after Miss Morning had smashed up its predecessor) we watched the news as the terror began.  The hoofbeats of disaster were there in every story — an epidemic of suicide; the churches, synagogues and mosques filled beyond capacity; neighbor turning upon neighbor; violence on the streets, widespread, indiscriminate and hysterical.  Bewilderment led to confusion, confusion to fear, fear to panic — panic, ineluctably, to death.

At six
P.M.
, the prime minister called an emergency session of Parliament.  One hour later, the government was advising everyone to stay in their homes, exhorting us not to venture outside.  At eight
P.M.
, we heard that the hospitals were overloaded, filled with manically gibbering patients (many of them former members of staff).  At nine
P.M.
, the telephone rang in our lounge.

I was checking on Mum when it happened.  She seemed to be sinking into some kind of delirium, muttering about something coming out of space to swallow London whole.  The strange thing was that when she spoke about it, it was with a pronounced lilt in her voice, an intonation of delight, as though she was actually looking forward to the death of the city.

When I got into the sitting room, Abbey was staring at the phone, gazing at it warily, like it was about to jump up and bite her.  I asked her why she hadn’t answered.

She bit her lip.  “I’m scared.”

I seized the receiver.  “Hello?”

I didn’t recognize the voice.  It was a man, about my own age.  “Is Abbey there?” he asked.

I said nothing.

“I need to speak to Abbey.”

“Who is this?”

Now the voice had an undercurrent of belligerence, barely disguised.  “This is Joe.  Who’re you?”

“I’m Henry Lamb,” I said, and slammed the phone down hard.

Abbey looked at me, wide eyed and shaky.  “Who was that?”

“Wrong number,” I said, and the way she stared at me it was like she knew that I was lying.

I took a glass of water to Mum and got her to struggle up and take a couple of sips before she sank back onto the mattress again.

“It’s all happening so fast,” she murmured.

“Don’t, Mum,” I said.  “Don’t try to speak.”

She groaned softly.  “Didn’t think it would end quite like this…”